


Something must break

by dorcas_gustine



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorcas_gustine/pseuds/dorcas_gustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Looked in the mirror, saw I was wrong,/If I could get back to where I belong, where I belong/Two ways to choose,/Which way to go,/Had thoughts for one/Designs for both.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Something must break

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by tigertrapped.

The receiver falls from his weak fingers and he's sliding down- on the ground now. He has to stay awake- awake! Don't go to sleep now, Sam! That's Gene's voice in his head. Don't go to sleep.

Pain. _Pain_. Painpainpainpain.

Don't go to sleep! Don'tgodon'tgodon'tgo. Stay awake.

His eyes close.

No more pain now.

Consciousness isn't gradual and progressive and doesn't come with a fade in from black, instead he startles awake, his eyes wide and shocked. The first instinct is trying to cough away the plastic that invades his throat, making it dry and full, but he almost chokes and after a second he manages to calm down a bit.

He darts his eyes around the room and he thinks this is a dream, an hallucination, but suddenly there's a noise from the door.

A cup of tasteless hospital coffee falls from long fingers, "Sam," Maya says.

 

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The first thing he says after they've taken the tube away, his voice raw and scratchy, is an address. Both Maya and his mother give him a strange look and he wants to reassure them that he's not crazy or brain-damaged, he just needs to know that he's managed to get help in time, to get back up.

"Please," he begs Maya, "Find everything you can. In 1973, anything. _Please_."

Maya frowns but she nods after a moment, even if a bit unconvinced. Maybe she's read some of the urgency on his face, in his eyes. Maybe it's his hand on her wrist, the grip weak but as hard as he can make it.

Exhausted, he falls back on his pillows and his eyelids are heavy, but he fights back sleep.

"You have to rest, Sam," his doctor says, and his voice is so familiar amongst the beeping of the machines in the room that he smiles a little.

His mother squeezes his hand gently, "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

Sam doesn't want to, though, he doesn't know where – _when_ – he's going to be when he'll wake up. The thing that scares him the most, though, it's that he doesn't know whether it'd be worse waking up again in 1973 or 2006.

 

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corto maltese

 

Something must break

 

[Life on Mars, gen]  
1965 words,

(Looked in the mirror, saw I was wrong,/If I could get back to where I belong, where I belong/Two ways to choose,/Which way to go,/Had thoughts for one/Designs for both.)

 

Many thanks to  
[info]tigertrapped for betaing this.

 

The receiver falls from his weak fingers and he's sliding down- on the ground now. He has to stay awake- awake! Don't go to sleep now, Sam! That's Gene's voice in his head. Don't go to sleep.

Pain. Pain. Painpainpainpain.

Don't go to sleep! Don'tgodon'tgodon'tgo. Stay awake.

His eyes close.

No more pain now.

Consciousness isn't gradual and progressive and doesn't come with a fade in from black, instead he startles awake, his eyes wide and shocked. The first instinct is trying to cough away the plastic that invades his throat, making it dry and full, but he almost chokes and after a second he manages to calm down a bit.

He darts his eyes around the room and he thinks this is a dream, an hallucination, but suddenly there's a noise from the door.

A cup of tasteless hospital coffee falls from long fingers, "Sam," Maya says.

 

*

 

The first thing he says after they've taken the tube away, his voice raw and scratchy, is an address. Both Maya and his mother give him a strange look and he wants to reassure them that he's not crazy or brain-damaged, he just needs to know that he's managed to get help in time, to get back up.

"Please," he begs Maya, "Find everything you can. In 1973, anything. Please."

Maya frowns but she nods after a moment, even if a bit unconvinced. Maybe she's read some of the urgency on his face, in his eyes. Maybe it's his hand on her wrist, the grip weak but as hard as he can make it.

Exhausted, he falls back on his pillows and his eyelids are heavy, but he fights back sleep.

"You have to rest, Sam," his doctor says, and his voice is so familiar amongst the beeping of the machines in the room that he smiles a little.

His mother squeezes his hand gently, "Go to sleep, sweetheart."

Sam doesn't want to, though, he doesn't know where – when – he's going to be when he'll wake up. The thing that scares him the most, though, it's that he doesn't know whether it'd be worse waking up again in 1973 or 2006.

 

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Sam doesn't remember, but he must have fallen asleep at a certain point, because he opens his eyes and the light has changed in the room. There's no one in either one of the plastic chairs and Sam wonders if Maya's doing what he's asked her to.

He doesn't know how he's managed to come back to 2006, he just remembers a warehouse and he and Ray going there to ask some questions and find some answers. In 1973, coppers were more respected than in 2006, maybe, but the men there sure didn't seem to mind having two coppers on their conscience. He remembers Ray laying motionless not far away from him, on the pavement, and pain as he tried to make his escape. He doesn't know if he's been able to get help in time, he doesn't-

Suddenly all the sounds coming from outside the room – people speaking, walking – die down, the noise from the machines next to him reaches his ears as if muffled.

He knows this.

The sounds get drowned down and he hears machines, but not those of 2006, he's hearing machines of a _1973 hospital_.

"_The concussion is quite severe_," a voice says in his head, "_But he's stable for the time being_."

Sam wants to scream, because this isn't supposed to happen, this is insane, there's no way out. He can't wake up in 2006 only to find that he's still in a coma, only more than thirty years before that.

"_When's he gonna wake up?_" a gruff voice asks - Gene - and Sam almost chokes, because he's suddenly reminded that he won't see him again, he won't see Annie, and Chris, and Ray, and Phyllis, and- he's lost them. He's lost them forever.

"_I'm afraid I won't be able to answer that_," the doctor continues in his head, "_I'll be honest with you, Mr. Hunt. Taking into account his present condition, you have to accept the possibility that he may never wake up._"

And this time Sam yells, "No!" and he wants to say 'I'm here! I'm alive!' but he stops just in time, because this is just a re-enacting, the situation is reversed, but he's already lived this. And maybe this is hell, condemned to go round and round in circles and knowing it, with no way to get out.

"_Come back to us, Sam_," a voice says next to his ear, and the image of Annie gently stroking his brow and whispering soft words to him brings tears to his eyes.

"_You'd better, Sammy-boy_," Gene adds, and finally tears fall.

No matter what, Sam just can't win.

 

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That night he's waken by Chris' voice and he can't help but smile as he trips over his words, unsure and awkward as ever.

"_Hey, Boss. Annie, um, she said we should talk to you and like, tell you things_," he says, "_Ray is all right, back up arrived in time. You saved him, Boss._"

Sam smiles to himself and lets Chris' droning lull him back to sleep.

 

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A few days later, Maya enters the room with a folder in hand and announces, "I've got those things you asked me."

Sam blinks at her uncomprehendingly and she just gives him a look and lets the folder fall on his lap, some of the papers inside scattering over his sheet-covered thighs. He takes one, it's a photocopy of an old newspaper article signed by Jackie Queen, and he remembers. He throws open the file, the urgency to know suddenly back in full force, and leafs through at least two dozen pages, copies of more articles and police reports and photos. His eyes sting and his hands tremble as he stares at a black and white, grainy photo. The quality is not the best, but he can easily recognize himself.

"That photo comes from a 1974 newspaper, Sam," Maya says next to him, and Sam can't put his finger on it, but there's something in her voice, "Is there something you want to tell me?"

It's _betrayal_, he realizes as she says, "Sam?"

But he's not really paying attention to her, next to the photo there's an article, _DI Sam Tyler_, it reads, passed away yesterday, never regaining consciousness from the coma caused by the extensive damage he suffered in an ambush, three months ago.

He dies – will die, _has died_ – on January 23, in 1974.

Maya is saying something, but he's still not listening to her.

"_You've had enough sleep, Tyler, time to wake up_," his Guv says, "What is this, Sam?" Maya asks.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, because it wasn't supposed to end like this. Except, what did he expect?

Did he expect it to end at all?

 

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The last time he saw his mother she was thirty years younger, but somehow it doesn't matter because when she bends to kiss him on the forehead, she smells the same, the way she smelled in 1973, the way she's always smelled. And it's relief to have something familiar, something he can say he _belongs_ to, no matter when.

But even this moment is spoiled when he remembers the look on his mother's face, after the ball at the wedding, and the look on his father's face later, beyond the gun aimed at Sam's head.

He looks at his mother, at the ring that she still has on her finger.

"I'm sorry, mom," he blurts out, and he instantly wishes he hasn't.

She gives him a frowning look, "What for?" she asks, puzzled.

Sam lowers his head, "Dad, he-" he closes his eyes and all he can see are his father's wrists thrust forward, and all he can hear is '_What're you gonna do, Sam?_' "I tried to make him stay, but I couldn't. I wasn't able to, I'm sorry."

"You were _four_, Sammy. It's not your fault, he had to get away. It was his choice, you have nothing to do with that," his mother says, hugging him, awkwardly, mindful of his IV.

"I just wanted him to stay," Sam whispers against his mother's hair.

"Me too," she says.

"_Come back, Sammy-boy,_" Gene says into his other ear, "_I know you can do it, you bloody hard-headed bastard._"

But Sam knows he can't.

 

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"You don't mean that, Sam," Maya says, cutting him off.

"But you've seen the photos, you've read the articles, the reports!" he exclaims, "That's _me_!"

"Let me rephrase that," Maya says, putting her hands forward in a calming gesture, "You can't mean that, Sam."

"But-"

"You're speaking of _time-travel_! You're saying you went back in time to 1973 and that you're now in a coma, and-"

"_Yes_!"

"No!" she says, firm, then she takes a deep breath, "It's not possible, Sam," she says, lowering her voice once again, "Some people have weird experiences while in a coma, but they're not real, they're _dreams_."

Sam has the sudden impulse to laugh, because this is Annie all over again, but _this_ time it's 2006 that's not real for him. He supposes he could use it as a catchphrase, every time he introduces himself.

Hey, I'm Sam Tyler, I travel in time and I get into comas a lot. It's all in my head, anyway. Pleased to meet you.

"You had a terrible trauma," she goes on, "This kind of confusion is to be expected."

Her words are professional, impersonal and she's speaking softly and slowly, soothing him.

"You're talking to me as if I were a nutter about to go on a killing frenzy," he realizes, sitting straighter, "You don't _believe_ me, you think I'm _insane_."

"A nutter-" she frowns, "You've changed, Sam."

That's what spending 1973 in the company of one Gene Hunt will do to you, love, he wants to tell her, but he says nothing, silently daring her to admit it.

"I don't think you're insane, Sam, merely a bit…_unbalanced_. You just have to adjust to normality again."

He snorts because isn't that the heart of the matter? What is normality? In 1973 he wanted to wake up so badly because he didn't belong there, but now he doesn't belong to 2006, either.

He just wants something to be real, _anything_, he just wants something, someplace to call home, somewhen to belong.

 

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The first time it happens he's doing PT for the atrophied muscles in his legs. A piercing pain stabs him in the chest and his throat closes and he's suffocating. He crumbles to the ground, trying to breathe in as much air as he can, gasping.

Later, when everything's over, he tells the physiotherapist that it's only been a particularly painful cramp, but he's heard the voices in his head screaming – "_Sam! Doctor, he's seizing!_" "_Tyler_!" – and he knows he hasn't got much time left, either in 1973 or 2006.

Sam has some favours to call in, and before the accident he knew all sorts of someones who may know a bloke who may know a doctor who can give you a shot of Sodium Pentothal enough to send you into an induced coma, no questions asked.

Technically it should be temporary, but if Sam's right – and after all he's quite the expert on comas, by now – he shouldn't wake up if he doesn't really want to. Or shouldn't fall into a coma, _again_.

He reckons he will be able to ignore the voices.

It takes him only a couple of calls, nothing much has changed while he's been away, and he's reminded once more that the world doesn't revolve around him.

And it shouldn't feel this disappointing.

 

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In 1973, Sam opens his eyes and he meets blue ones.


End file.
